I’d never been to St Andrews before. It’s a pretty little church built in the 18th century to accommodate the spiritual needs of the neighbouring tobacco lords. Although it hasn’t hosted a service since 1993, it is still so evidently a place of worship that when John Grant opens his jaws and sings “Jesus, he hates faggots son,” you can’t help but giggle a little. What a setting!
Accompanied by just a grand piano and a synth, it is his voice that is the real star tonight. It fills the air, exploiting the natural acoustics of this space. I am initially struck by the sobriety of the whole performance. John is dressed in an identikit black shirt and jeans – the outfit I always had to wear at school concerts – while his one accompanist utters not a word; watching Grant intently for his cue. The mood is more like that of a recital than a rock concert or the last night of a festival.
For the first half hour or so the only signs that Grant is actually enjoying himself are the nervous grins he flashes as each song comes to an end and the crowd goes nuts, over and over and over again. This humble pride defines the whole evening. Last summer John was playing in the Captains Rest, a miniscule venue packed to capacity. Tonight is somewhat more highbrow and another sellout. After ten years in semi-obscurity with The Czars, and another six recovering from depression and drug addiction while working as a waiter, this must feel like he has finally made it. If he is still licking his wounds at least he is being admired while doing it. I guess we can probably forgive him if he takes these songs a little seriously.
Each one is a densely layered story of crippling self-doubt, sexual repression and tragic love affairs told in his spectacularly smooth baritone. Grant’s preoccupation with science-fiction, classic movies and childlike imagery form a prism through which these themes are reflected, making his melodramas infinitely more entertaining and personable.
In this stripped-down set-up, Grant’s love of monophonic synthesisers comes to the fore, and played alone against a lilting piano, these haunting melodies shine. The atmospherics bleed from the circuit board with as much power as any traditional instrument. It’s a wonderful way of demonstrating the beauty and versatility of the synth to an audience generally unaccustomed to it.
One among the almost constant stream of highlights is his reading of ‘Queen of Denmark’, the title track from his debut album. This has to be one of the best songs written in the past few years, injecting sly humour into a pitch-perfect fuck-you! cry to be alone. It’s a perfect example of John’s emotional depth, wit, anger and extraordinary lungs. It leaves me short of breath every time I hear it.
The closest person I can compare him to is Rufus Wainwright, yet he is much more likeable. At 42, our man Grant is still wading through the emotional wreckage of his life but appears to have drawn his head above the surface for the first time in a long while. The warmth of feeling in the crowd towards him is amazing. Everyone here seems to gasp at their own favourite song.
Stripped of the 70s soft-rock backing that fleshed out his record, Grant’s strength and honesty as a songwriter is brought to the fore. This man is a true gem and it makes me shudder to think how close he came to giving it all up once and for all.
After this he’s back off to Sweden to continue work on a new “electronic David Lynch-style” record. The couple of new tracks we’re treated to – ‘You Don’t Have To’ and ‘Fireflies’ – show no sign that he’s out of angst just yet. He returns to Scotland on March 23rd at the Voodoo Rooms in Edinburgh. Please go. There is no one else quite like him around at the moment.
- Conquering Animal Sound - 24 February 2011
- John Grant - 14 February 2011
- A Night of Celtronika - 7 February 2011